Rotes Blut
by BattyBigSister
Summary: A Kekkei Genkai is a jutsu passed down through the generations in the family's DNA. It isn't supposed to kill its user. Gaara/OC/Kankurou love triangle. Story written in English. Obviously.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer**: Naruto, both manga and anime, and any related work do not in any way belong to me. This is a fan-made story, unrelated to the original creators of Naruto, intended purely for the amusement of other fans. No defamation of any sort is intended towards the original manga and anime, its characters and creators or anyone else related to the official Naruto franchise. This work is available for free, on a wholly non-commercial basis, and no profit has been made or is intended to be made by its production and distribution.

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

Red hot dusty wind blew across the street, as the Kazekage stood watching the family packing all their belongings up onto the carts. The elderly white-haired grandmother scolded loudly as her son-in-law carefully attempted to load up furniture she had owned for decades. His wife and her sister were balancing on the boxes and crates, strapping them down against the strong winds on the journey ahead. Young children whined and cried among the caravan, hushed by their older cousins. Men tackled the baying camels, bringing them into line among a flurry of stamping hooves and stubborn lowing. Women hurried about checking on provisions and dashing back into houses for things that might have been forgotten. Camels huffed, carts shook and children squealed, rubbing their eyes against the early morning sun that barely tipped over the edge of the great stone walls of the hidden village. After decades and generations of loyal servitude, the family was now leaving Suna forever.

"I still cannot believe I am letting you do this," the Yondaime sighed, sticking his hands deep into the folds of his white haori. The sandstone courtyard around them was pale and heavy with shadows in the dim rosy light. Burning torches flickered on the walls and the air was still moist with the morning dew. His sandals slapped against the worn tiles as the Kazekage adjusted his feet, his strong features frowning as he gazed unhappily at the floor.

"It is for the best," came the reply. It was spoken by a broad-shouldered man of a similar age. He might have been an inch or so taller than the Kazekage and he was certainly wider, in all directions, having been born has the sort of man whom nature had intended to be big and muscly and … well… big. Square-faced and jawed, a long scar traced the underside of his thick chin and neck. His heavy brown desert robes were stretched tight over his giant frame. In the middle of his face he sported a short, stubby nose and a pair of deep-set eyes. A hardened cauliflower ear peeked through his mess of wiry hair and his voice was deep and gruff as he spoke.

Nestled tightly in muscular arms, loosely swaddled in the folds of his sleeves, a little baby kicked and cooed. Already as dark-skinned and ruddy-faced as its parent, it fisted bits of his clothing and gurgled away to itself in happy oblivion of the events surrounding it. "After everything that's happened," he continued in a softer, sadder, tone, "I don't want this little one to grow up the way we did. You understand that, surely?" He brushed the baby's bald head and smiled, as it cooed and reached for his fingers, attempting to suck on them like a dummy. Its father grinned and played with it, holding the fingers just out of reach as it tried to grasp them.

"I do understand," the Kazekage glanced at the infant. It turned its big brown eyes towards him, a fleck of drool marking its chin as it kicked away in its sand-coloured jumpersuit, ironically baring the symbol of their hidden village proudly across its front. "After everything that's happened, perhaps I don't even have the right to call myself a father anymore," he closed his eyes, angling his head back towards the floor. "It figures you would want to protect your child from me."

The man stared up at him, his features contorting into a frown. "Don't say that," he chided him, shaking his head as he adjusted the baby in his arms, "Your children need you now more than ever."

"My poor children," the Kazekage replied sardonically. He scoffed, shaking his own head, "I am the Kazekage first and their father second. In essence they became orphans the day their mother died." He turned his head away bitterly, glaring at the desert sand as it shifted across cracks in the tiles in the slight breeze. Alone in his long flowing robes, he cut a lonely figure in the courtyard. His naturally spikey brown hair lay bare without its hat and his contorted face bore a mask of resentment, as he scuffed his sandals and glowered against the world. If the man he was speaking to had not been his childhood friend, this conversation would never have even begun and very soon now the chance of ever talking like this again would be gone forever. The family were leaving and the man with them.

"Don't say that," he replied softly, holding the baby closer to his chest, "They are your precious children still." He rocked the infant against himself, his eyes wide with grief as he watched his life-long friend in his internal struggle.

"My children are as nothing unless they have value for Suna," the Kazekage spat coldly, his arms folded, as he turned away from him to stare at a wall instead, "I don't blame you for wanting to take your daughter away from all that… away from a cold calculating monster like me… and my son." His mouth tightened as he spoke the words.

"I am not leaving because of your son," the man retorted, his face fierce, "You know what my daughter faces if we stay… How could just expect me to stand by and let that happen?" Uncomfortable as he held it slightly too tight, the baby whined. Her father instantly loosened his grip, hushing it gently against his chest.

"I know," the Kazekage sighed, closing his eyes, allowing his head to hang slightly, "I don't expect you to stay. That's why I'm letting you go… Much to the council's disgust." He looked away towards Suna's distant centre, obscured as it was by the courtyard walls.

The man did not seem reassured. "I need you to protect this baby," he insisted, drawing closer and bouncing the infant against shoulder, "Or she will never be safe." His face had hardened and there was a wide desperate sheen to his eyes as he pressed his lips together, imploring his friend to listen.

His attitude seemed to surprise the Kazekage. "You already have my word," he assured him, holding up his hands out flat as he faced him. His brows knotted, as he regarded his frantic friend. "You know you have it."

"Swear," his friend demanded, narrowing his eyes, "Swear it again." His voice was strangely cold as he remained resolute in his worry.

"Alright, I swear," the Kazekage replied, rolling his eyes, "She will be safe. She'll never become a shinobi or know her own power. Nothing is going to hurt her for as long I live to prevent it. You know that." He held up his hands again, spreading them outwards from his heart as if to imply that he was concealing nothing.

The man shook his head, kissing the top of the baby's bald scalp. "I hope so," he murmured uncertainly.

"I swear," his friend repeated, his voice much more solemn this time, "As I am her Kazekage and yours, she will be safe. I promise you." He took a step towards his friend, his eyes stern as he regarded him. His fists curled tightly in the sleeves of his official white haori.

"Thank you…" the man breathed unhappily, kissing the top of the infant's head again, his gaze growing softer as he did so. He gulped down a breath of air, glancing up into the blood-red dawn, "I just… I can't…"

He was interrupted by a bushy-haired blonde in flowing green robes, who hurtled towards them from one of the wagons. Her oversized stomach wobbling, still full of post-natal fat, she clutched her ample skirts with one hand as she ran. "Anata!" she yelled, waving frantically with the other, "Your mother wants to leave now! She says we've got a lot of distance to make before the midday sun."

The Kazekage patted his friend reassuringly on his free shoulder. "You take good care of my daughter-in-law," he commanded gently, pushing him off towards his waiting wife.

It had been intended as a joke, but instead of reassuring him or making him laugh, the man balked, glancing uncertainly at the baby he held. "I hope she'll never have to become that."

As he watched him walking off, holding out the baby to her fussing mother, as he saw the little family of three climb into one of the wagons and signal to its driver, the Kazekage hung his head, breathing deeply. "Yeah…" he muttered, "Me too."


	2. Chapter 1a

_Lass die Kinder in den Wiegen spielen,  
>Das ihre Augen dort im Dunkeln schielen,<br>Lass ihnem das Dunkeln rein im Herzen,  
>Höre in der Nacht die Sonnenschmertzen.<em>

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><p><strong>Chapter 1 - Kamele in der Wüste<strong>

Nomads, the desert was full of them: nomadic tribes who roamed from one place to another, drifting from one water source to the next, herding livestock and collecting goods for trade. Kankurou watched from the parapets as the guards inspected a group of regulars who tended to drop by Suna this time of year. Brunt brown men in patterned turbans and women in brightly coloured patchwork dresses; bulky bags and clinking metalware slung over the braying camels and mules; their dusty hooves pounded against the hardened sand by the gate, their necks tossing to and throw as they complained loudly in the grainy heat haze, all anxious to be allowed in for a long drink of cool refreshing water. He heard a shout and bent low to return a wave by a young man dressed in blue, whom he recognised from previous visits, before the latter turned and began the traditional argument over tolls and customs with one of the guards.

On impulse he headed over towards the other side of Suna's main wall, where he could see the first few members of the caravan already congregating along the main road. He swung his legs over the gritty stone uprights and half-slid down the stairs to the ground. His black aproned shirt flying up around his belt, he landed with expert grace near a group of giggling young woman, who brightened up the moment they saw him.

"Hello Kankurou-san!" the eldest of the collection, a comely creature in vivid green veils embroidered with gold, hailed him eagerly, as he dusted off his three quarter length trousers, "You not married yet?"

"No, not yet," he glanced up, smirking at her through his purple war paint, "Can't say I ever found the right girl." Neither surprised or offended by the heavily loaded greeting, he nodded cordially at the gaggle of girls in their beautifully patterned cotton dresses. Travelling around as much as they did, coyness and shyness didn't pay off if they wanted to find a partner. There was no time for stolen glimpses and romantic leanings if you might be gone the next morning and a jounin-level shinobi represented financial security and stability… and a decent widow's pension if you were unlucky enough to need it.

"Oh… well," the girl who had hailed him, laughed in insouciant pity, "Maybe you're just not looking in the right places?" Her delicately painted hand curled slightly in her curve of her hip and the swell of her bosom stretched out just a little too far.

"Maybe I'm not," he agreed good-naturedly, cutting the conversation to a close before he found himself engaged, "Have you seen Goro-san? I'd like to speak with him."

"He'll be over there by the camels in the shade," she conceded in good-natured defeat, wagging her hand at a spot a little further along the wall, "Maybe another time, Kankurou-san?"

"Maybe," he called over his shoulder, giving her a wave goodbye. He proceeded along in the indicated direction, the sun burning down on his black shinobi uniform. There was fountain built into the side of one of the houses there and a few date palms dotted about it providing shelter from the heat of the day, courtesy of Suna's ample underground water supply. A couple of camels lounged underneath the dusty leaves, their eyes closed as they lazily chewed away at heaven-knew-what and occasionally breathed the odd capacious sigh.

Nearby an old man lay half-sprawled on a stone bench in the shade. His vermillion-coloured desert robes were pulled up to his knee as he rested his leg alongside him, a multitude of thick blue veins visible through the greying hair that clung to it. Damp from the fountain, his long white beard left a trail as it tapered down his chest, his turban slightly askance as he sat with a waterskin raised to his mouth, clearly absorbed in a much-need drink. A camel nudged him impatiently on the shoulder and he batted it away in irritation, smacking his lips as he did so.

"Goro-san," the puppetmaster called in delight as he approached the trees.

The man lowered the skin and glanced around himself in surprise, as he wiped stray droplets from his chin. "Ah, Kankurou-kun," his nest of dark-crusted wrinkles broke into a smile as he recognised the shinobi, "I had been wondering if I might see you today." He moved his leg and patted the spot beside him in an eager invitation.

"You nearly didn't," Kankurou replied with a grin, settling himself on the bench, "I just got back from a mission two days ago. We were lucky and it finished up quickly… or else I'd still be there." He shrugged apologetically and ran a hand through his hair.

"Ah, such is life," his friend declared magnanimously, flourishing the waterskin as he set it aside, "But we meet after all… Lucky us! And yes, my young hasty friend, I have the item you inquired about." He winked surreptitiously, clicking his tongue.

Kankurou's eyes widened with surprise. "You do?" he repeated, clearly a little incredulously.

"Oh, yes," the old man declared proudly, dragging a nearby leather bundle towards him with one hand and rifling through it with the other, "Let me see now…" He clicked his tongue impatiently, snatching up a bundle of heavily padded cloth from inside. "Here we are!" he declared, dropping it in the younger man's waiting lap, "Twelve fine examples of pure shinobi crystals from the far north of the Earth country - hard to find in this economy and even more expensive to procure. I'm sure it'll make a fine weapon for whatever it was you had in mind." He beamed, watching as Kankurou held a small pear-cut gem up into the light.

The warpaint shifted as the younger man frowned with the last words. "Which brings us to the point, I suppose," he sighed, putting down the gemstone and reaching inside his shirt for his money, "How much do I owe you?"

"Tsk…" the old man snorted and stamped a foot impatiently, "For an old friend, do not insult me by asking. This is a gift." He shook his hand as if to dismiss the whole affair, his wrinkled old mouth set firmly in a line, as he glanced up at the sky.

Kankurou nearly dropped the bundle in surprise. "Are you sure…?" he gasped, his jaw slackening and his eyes widening as he stared at the old man.

"Oh yes," he agreed, patting him gently on the shoulder, "You take this, my boy, and use it well." He gave him a smile and a gentle nudge in the ribs.

Uncertainly the shinobi glanced at the little bundle in his lap. "Surely there is something I can for you in return?" he offered, still wide-eyed and obviously a little concerned.

The old man shook his head, his beard shifting as he did so and his eyes seemed to staring off into a distant place that Kankurou did not seem to be able to see. "Your father performed many great services for me and my people – much more valuable than a few little trinkets," the ancient nomad assured in a softer tone, his hand curling over his knee, "And now that I am soon to join him, I would like to be able to tell him I have done something for one of his sons, even if it was just to source a gem or two for a weapon." He clicked his tongue again, shaking his head. "No, no. I am sure," he repeated, punching Kankurou gently in the arm as he seemed about to protest again, "You take this and use it well – and let's hope it will serve you well and perhaps even one day save your life."

Kankurou stared at his hands, swallowing heaving. "If you are certain…" he muttered weakly, "I really don't know what to say…"

The nomad cuffed him gently around the head, almost knocking off his cat-eared hood in the process. "You say 'thank you', my boy, and smile for an old man," he informed, his twinkling eyes burning fiercely into the shinobi's. Kankurou laughed despite himself and hurriedly offered the forgotten thanks. The old man nodded in satisfaction, scratching an underarm as he settled himself back on the bench. "Oh, if your father could see the great men his sons became," he sighed wistfully, as he gazed fondly at the younger male beside him, "I'm sure he would be very proud… and of his daughter too, of course. How is Temari-chan these days? I hear she got married a few years back?" He tilted his head slightly, an eyebrow raised, as he waited keenly for a supply of gossip.

Kankurou nodded, grinning, as he was back on familiar territory. "Yeah, she's very well and very happy as far as I know," he assured him, tightening the cloth around the jewels and packing them away in an inside pocket of his shirt, "I saw them a few months ago, when they had their second child, and she was in excellent spirits. I've still got the bruises." His eyes narrowed and he rubbed his temple, recalling a less pleasant memory.

The old man on the other hand seemed delighted. "Oh splendid. Splendid," he proclaimed, clapping his hands, "She bore a fine son, I trust?" He waggled his brows, his wrinkled eyes gleaming inquisitively.

"No, another girl," Kankurou shook his head with a smile, "But my brother-in-law informs me that his daughters are 'just as troublesome as boys', so he really doesn't see the difference." He waved a hand dismissively, as the new father had done before him.

"Haha," the old man guffawed loudly, slapping his knee. "Oh very splendid indeed," he assured the beaming uncle, "Very wise too. Remind me, I'm an old man and forget these things, who was it she wed again?"

"Shikamaru of the Nara Clan in Konoha," the puppetmaster informed him with a shrug.

He sat up in alarm, kicking the water skin by his feet. A damp dark stain grew around his sandals, but he hardly seemed to notice. "_Konoha_gakure? Such a long way away?" he cried in alarm, "She must miss her home out here in desert. Poor girl. Does she write you often?" Deep furrows of cracked dusty skin appeared around his eyes and ears as he grabbed the younger man's shoulder, apparently aghast as the prospect of Temari's possible homesickness.

Given that the last time he had seen her, she had been violently propelling a frying pan over her head and charging down the street after several young miscreants caught scrumping apples from the Nara's garden, Kankurou couldn't say he shared that concern. His sister seemed to be adapting to life in Konoha as if she had been born there instead. Every time he visited she would bore him silly with tales of the advantages of her new home, starting with how the milder climate made her hair less frizzy and her skin less dry and other things her brother could safely say he didn't give two hoots about; although her husband was probably relieved not to have to trip over six empty bottles of conditioner on his way to the bathroom every morning.

"Weekly letters," the Suna jounin replied, scowling at his feet, "Principally to remind us to put the bins out and do our laundry. If Gaara let her, she would probably insist we pack it up and send it to her for cleaning." He bent down to scoop up the waterskin before it emptied itself entirely and shook it as he assessed what little remained inside. "She's never trusted either of us to take care of ourselves," he sighed, twisting around to refill the container from the fountain for his old friend, "I don't know why – for as long as I can remember she always let the colour run or accidently burnt our dinner. Things have been a lot more peaceful at home since she got married." He stretched out an arm dangling the skin for his friend to take, but to his surprise he found him unable to oblige.

The old man was reeling backwards, slapping at his knees as he barked with laughter. His wizened head was thrown back so far it seemed like his turban would end up on the floor and the saggy flaps of his chin fluttered beneath his beard with each croaking guffaw. "Hahahaha!" he roared as he failed his arms, righting himself and wiping the tears from his eyes with his sleeve, "Oh my – a fine woman indeed. She'll be happy to see you both wed and in the company of another, I think."

Kankurou hissed between his teeth, looking away. The waterskin bounced gently against his knees as he lowered his arm. "Fat chance of that happening, believe me."

"Oh?" the old man was alert again in an instant, leaning closer to peer up at the younger man, "And why would that be?" He blinked, his myriad of wrinkles dancing as he did so, but the beady expression hat face contained never let up.

Kankurou shifted uncomfortably in his seat, rubbing the corner of one of his sleeves. "As I was just telling your Yoshiko-chan, I never seem to meet the right woman..."

"No?" his friend exclaimed, his overly bushy eyebrows rising, "A young handsome man like you, still in the very pearl of his youth – a fallacy surely? I do not believe a word of it. Wasn't there that delicate flower… what was her name?" He worked his tongue around his lips, as he sat back and tapped his fingers thoughtfully on a bony knee.

"Yumiko-san left me nearly a year ago," Kankurou supplied, with a half-hearted shrug. His eyes were fixed on the cloudless skies above them. "Apparently we just weren't meant for one another… and she's just gotten engaged to someone else." A camel lowed in beside him.

The old man breathed a heavy sigh, his expression thick with sorrow. He shook his head in sympathy, clicking his tongue, but the curious look never really left him. "Ah, but wasn't there another you liked before her…?"

"Kiri-chan died during the last war," Kankurou explained, hunching his shoulders and staring at the ground instead.

His friend's tongue clicking became louder. "Then perhaps that one who…"

"Ayame-san prefers Gaara," the younger man interrupted emotionlessly.

The old man hung his head, bracing himself on his knees. "Tsk…What woe for a line of shinobi as hailed as yours! Generations of Kazekage in your numbers and no one to carry on that tradition…" he moaned softly, grinding his sandals through the sand at the feet. Breathing a sigh, he straightened a little and patted Kankurou encouragingly on the back. "Alas fortune may not be favouring you in this regard of late, but no matter: the whims of fate are a curious thing. The right girl may well yet appear where you least thought to look. You will have another generation of Kazekage in your family yet, I think, or this desert would barely know what to do with such a change… and I with it, I fear."

Kankurou snorted loudly, turning towards his friend with a thin smile. "Honestly, I've just about stopped caring," he declared, digging the back of a fist into his thigh with a thump. "It'll happen if it happens. There are plenty of shinobi in Suna who would make excellent Kazekage without being my children or Gaara's. Besides," he added with a slightly softening of his expression, "I've got enough other things in my life that are important to me and I want to protect: this village, my brother…"

"And how is young Gaara-kun?" the old man put in, leaning forward with an openly calculating look as he steered the course of the conversation on to the other brother, "I cannot believe that our noble and famous Kazekage would lack a fair young blossom to delight his lonely heart?"

Kankurou actually laughed, the square features of his face expanding beneath the purple war paint. "I'm not convinced he even knows what women _are_, in that way anyway," he confessed, running a hand up passed his ear and into his hair beneath the folds of his hood, "It's pretty certain he's not gay, but I do have my doubts sometimes. Gaara's twenty-six now and I'm beginning to wonder if perhaps we should have that 'little chat' again."

"Oh my!" the old man exclaimed, grinning fondly as he shook his head, "A man married to his job no doubt – and he married it young."

"He did…" Kankurou agreed, with a smile. His expression visibly softened with the mentions of his younger sibling. "And it's not like he's suffering from a lack of offers. I think that's part of the problem. The girls around here just scare him." He made a vague gesture towards the centre of the village with the sloshing waterskin. One eye lowered in a conspiratorial wink.

"Hahahahaaa!" the old man roared with laughter again, falling over his knees and slapping his ankles. "Well, as I told my father-in-law on the occasion of my seventh marriage," he informed him, peering up at him with squinting eyes as he righted himself, "'Never count yourself out. You don't know what it is you've yet to find'."

Kankurou felt his jaw slacken. The waterskin bounced softly against his knee. "Your seventh…?" He was suddenly very aware of the noise of the fountain playing on behind them.

"Oh yes," the old man agreed, languidly stretching his nut brown arms over his head as he yawned. Loose saggy folds of wrinkled skin swung freely as his sleeves tumbled down the limbs. "You know, my father-in-law was a good twenty years younger than I was?" he added with a wink towards his somewhat bemused companion, "It was quite the joke at the time, but she was a fine young thing… and much the doting little sweetheart." His tone softened and his wrinkled eyes slipped into a tender distant void of fond recollections. Shaking his head, he smiled weakly at Kankurou. "Now, my ninth marriage – _that_ was a tale… Ahh…" he smacked his lips fiercely and grinned, rubbing his palms together, "What do you say? How about we leave these young desert mice to their haggling and hop along down to the lodgings for a bottle of sake, and perhaps a little shogi match, so I can tell you all about it in a civilized fashion, eh boy?"

Kankurou laughed and stood up, dropping the strap of the waterskin around his friend's shoulders before offering him a hand in standing up. "You know," he announced, clapping the old man gently on the shoulder with a smirk, "I think you'd rather like my brother-in-law." A camel huffed at their retreating backs, as they set off down the dusty sand road towards central Suna.

The old man's eyes twinkled with delight, as he raised his eyebrows at the younger shinobi. "Ah, as handsome as me, is he?" he retorted, sticking out his chest and pretending to adjust his turban in a very burlesque fashion.

"Oh, no," Kankurou chuckled, shaking his head as he smiled at the sand crunching beneath his feet. "He couldn't do you justice, but he does play a mean game of shogi."

"Aha!" he smacked his lips in appreciation, pounding the air in mock triumph, "A fine trait in a young man, I do declare!" He nodded vigorous approval, clapping his hands together in front of him.

Kankurou raised an eyebrow, turning to peer at him from the side of his face, "Temari didn't seem to think so when she confiscated his game board…"


	3. Chapter 1b

"Kazekage-sama! I swear you are planning to ruin me!"

The clock ticked softly on the wall. Slowly and deliberately, she twirled the octagonal sides of the pencil between her fingers, grinding the point into the sharpener. Her long burgundy-coloured nails scraped against the thin red varnish of the wood, but she didn't notice. She had eyes for one thing and one thing alone: the minute hand.

It vibrated softly over its plain white face, feeling the rapid movements of its second-counting triplet. She pursed her lips, sucking the gloss from her pronounced cupid's bow as she twisted the wood through its final circle. Freeing the pencil, she carefully positioned the tip before her rose-coloured mouth and blew away the stray bits of graphite. She tapped the sharpener once against the rim of the metal wastepaper basket by her feet, before rising and dropping the pencil and its filing agent neatly into her desk tidy. Pushing her chair back into place, she tugged at the hem of her skirt, pulling the sheer black fabric creaselessly into place over her gently rounded hips.

The muffled babble of the voices grew slightly clearer. She tensed, glancing up at the clock – still no noticeable movement. Grabbing her clipboard from the desk, she slid into position by the door, plucking stray strands from the floaty silk sleeves of the top she wore under her chuunin vest, her heeled sandals aligned neatly on the yellow stone floor. She breathed in, closing her eyes. Her heart-shaped features grew almost entirely still, the outward flick of her sunny brown hair grazing the porous rock wall. The small anteroom was both deserted and bare, save for herself, her meticulous work-station and that one vital time piece above her head. Its tick determined the rhythm of her day, dictated her life, told her exactly what was to come at any time. Alone within the cavernous example of Suna's sandstone architecture, it spoke like the cardinal of a cathedral; the voice and face of a religion so prevalent because it was orchestrated and administered solely by… him. Faintly, barely within hearing range, came the soft click of the moving minute hand.

"_Kazekage-sama!_" a loud voice exclaimed as the door swung open, "I must protest at this! Really I do. Think of the costs of production. The costs of production, Kazekage-sama!"

"The price of Suna gold has been consistent for the last three years," the familiar deep rasping voice made her eyes snap open. Her back straightened with an involuntary shiver. "If you do not wish to buy, I know others who do."

Resisting the urge to turn her head, she nevertheless found herself straining her eyes to peer for a glimpse of the long deep teal robes and headdress with the white haori **(**_**1**_**)** sweeping down from broad masculine shoulders. For just a second she caught sight a of flash of crimson hair and dark-lined eyes, but then he had passed her and she could only stare at his back, noticeably lean and muscular even under the layers of official clothing. She found herself swallowing hard at the sight.

"Well…" The Kazekage's opponent in this discussion was a small, dumpy-shaped man with a round pot-belly protruding markedly over the long golden sash he used as a belt. The thick curly black of a beard that seemed to reach right into his ears did nothing to hide the sulky frown developing beneath the man's pudgy nose. "I didn't say that…" he murmured reluctantly, stuffing his hands into the wide sleeves of his glossy aquamarine robes. He was in fact on the receiving end of a very fair deal, but had never been above attempting to bully his way into an even bigger discount … and Gaara of the Desert had been Kazekage long enough to know that all too well.

"Then thank you for your order," Suna's taciturn leader replied, turning away with a brief touch of his hat, "We will see it fulfilled promptly as always." The veil of white fabric fluttered, swinging away from his face and suddenly the brightly-lit sandstone anteroom felt much too small for the kunoichi **(**_**2**_**)** he barely saw. Flawless skin in a pallid white gold stretched from the pointed chin to the defined eyebrow-less arches of his eyes, which were themselves a pair perfectly-shaped pebbles of light turquoise set in their impenetrable black rings. The pale expanse of his brow was broken by the kanji on his brow, as dark a crimson as his messy hair and always prominent beneath the natural parting of his fringe. It broadcast a single word – a word that even as a child had been more important to the Kazekage than any other. That word was 'love'.

The emissary gave him a snort of disapproval, eyeing the white clad shoulders contemptuously. "Your father would never have treated an old friend…"

Gaara stiffened. Something darkened in his expression as his mouth set into a firm line. "My father has been dead for thirteen years," his voice never rose, but the underlying menace in his tone was almost palpable, "If you haven't already acclimatised to the regime change, I strongly suggest you start now." His attitude alarmed the little man, making him jolt backwards on tip toe, apologies and excuses streaming out of the beard before his brain even caught up with his mouth.

The Kazekage watched the merchant disappear out into the corridor from the corner of his eye. He snorted softly, shaking his veiled head. White fabric danced around his neck as he did so and the woman eyed the billowing mound of his collar with a sudden hunger. "My next appointment, Hitomi-san?" Gaara inquired, with a cursory glance at his secretary.

Her breath caught in her throat, as her face and arms turned almost numb with shock. Stuttering in spite of herself, she fumbled for the clipboard she didn't need as she exclaimed, rather more loudly than necessary, "Just the representatives of the nomad traders who arrived earlier, Kazekage-sama. They'll be here in about three minutes."

"Thank you," he replied, moving back into his office with a dismissive wave of his hand, "Send them in, please."

"Kaze…" the word died on her lips as the wide stone-set surface of the principle door of Suna closed in her face. Her shoulders sagged and her remaining breath exited in a drawn-out sigh of disappointment. Once again, she had failed to draw his attention; once again, he hadn't seen her for any more than her job description. Perhaps tomorrow she really should try wearing that low-cut top?

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><p><strong>(<strong>_**1**_**)** a garment, similar to a thin cloth jacket, traditionally worn over a kimono – or in the Naruto universe, the Kage robes

**(**_**2**_**)** a female ninja


	4. Chapter 1c

Several rounds of sake had turned the old man very merry. He sat on the wooden bench outside the public house with his robes up around his thighs and hairy veined legs exposed to the world. The old face was flushed deep into the cavities of the wrinkles and his beard was flecked with drink. Wispy tufts of white-grey hair stuck out of the folds of his turban, yet he was still quite lucid. The shogi board between them, showing the remains of a match narrowly completed in the old man's favour, was proof of that. Kankurou had been forced to turn down the offer of more wine just to avoid humiliation.

Warm sand blew up against the ninja's sandals though the air was rapidly starting to feel quite cool. The sun was hanging low over the large sandstone domes, a deep crimson orb in the rose-coloured sky. A skinny waitress in Suna's traditional tan robes hovered in the doorway, eyeing their empty cups with an encouraging smile, but the shinobi waved her away without a second thought, stretching his back against the knobbly wall.

Goro gave a long contented sigh, scratching his chin beneath the briskly white the adorned it. "You sure I can't tempt you with an offer of hospitality?" he inquired, raising a hopeful eyebrow at his younger companion, "My present wife makes the most amazing lizard brain soup?" He smacked his lips loudly in appreciation, rubbing his thigh with his fist.

Kankurou shook his head with a smile, adjusting the hems of his long black sleeves and absentmindedly checking the pouches by his side. "I have to be going," he confessed, tugging his cat-eared hood deeper over his purple-lined face, "My brother will be wondering where I am."

Goro breathed a long languid sigh. "Ah, yes. Duty calls. Very apt attitude for a young man such as yourself," he agreed and then smacked his lips loudly as he rubbed his palms together, "Well, an old one like me can't be blamed for turning in early. There will be camels to see to in the morning, as they say." Kankurou wasn't entirely sure where this might be said or what it was meant to mean, but he didn't question his old friend on it, offering him a hand instead as the old man staggered to his feet.

The dusk painted the buildings and archways around them soft shades of gold and pink as they made their way through the deserted streets. Hazy light crept from sheltered stone eves and doorways, where lamps had been lit for the sake of those underway at night. The sand crunched softly under their sandals as they walked side by side, kicking up small clouds as they went. The old man hummed softly, his discordant deep voice occasionally breaking out in stray lyrics from a variety of Kaze no Kuni _**(1)**_ folk songs.

On the very edge of the city, near some of the training grounds, stood the inn Kankurou knew the nomad tribes usually favoured during their yearly visits. It was cheap and uniquely offered lodging for camels and livestock as well as humans. The knobbly sandstone building was surrounded by wooden fences and multiple brightly coloured tents, housing whatever had not been taken inside with the guests. Camels lowed in their pen outside, chewing their cud or jostling each other for access to the water trough and a group of young Suna men were trying to impress a group of young Nomadic women by the enclosure's spotted some of the same girls he had met earlier, baskets of half-shelled beans and sowing forgotten beside them as they laughed at the young shinobi balancing kunai and showing off scars and muscle.

"Tsk," the old man sighed, drawing himself up on Kankurou's arm, "Girls these days. Barely five minutes ago, I swear, they were up on their mother's knees drinking milk… Now they're off looking for a belly-full of baby of their own. How time flies, eh?" He sighed, tutting softly despite the noncommittal grunt from his young companion. Steadying himself on his feet, his withered arms folded in his sleeves, Goro watched the young female tribe members with a resigned expression. One of the shinobi threw a bunch of kunai up in the air like juggling balls, trying to catch them all again before they fell. The girls giggled loudly and appreciatively around him, clapping their hands as they drew closer, but Kankurou scowled at the unprofessional behaviour, especially when the ninja nearly dropped a blade on his own foot.

"It's all for the men, the money and the chance to get out of the desert and away from their fathers, brothers and grandfathers, of course," Goro went on half-laughing as he shook his head, "Nobody wants to be stuck carrying on the old traditions these days. Funny how things change: their grandmothers wouldn't have wanted to leave the safety of the sands with all that war going on." He nudged Kankurou in the ribs as they stood together in the gathering darkness and drew the young man's head down closer with a free hand. "That's my great-great-granddaughter over there, you know?" he confided in his ear, with a conspiratorial wink at a tall girl in dark green, pretending to mend a perfectly whole-looking shawl under the light from a nearby lamp post, "Oh and three of my great-great nieces… or is it great-great-great nieces? I can never remember…"

He couldn't have been quiet enough, because, right at the same moment, the girl by the light looked up, squinting at the shadows of the stone archways under which they stood. She dropped the shawl on one of her distracted fellows and straightened with sudden interest, leaping off the wooden railing with surprising agility for someone in such long robes. "Ah, Goro-jii-chan, there you are!" she called, breaking away from the group to hurry over to them. One of her arms waved madly over her head, knocking her cowl sideways, "Baa-chan was worried about where you'd slunk off too. They've finished rounding up all the camels and the market stalls did well this afternoon. Uncle was wondering if you'd… Oh, hi Kankurou-san! Fancy meeting you again today!" She finished with barely more than a single breath, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the shinobi. Instantly her stance became a little more lady-like, and a set of delicately painted fingers sneaked up to her neck, adjusting her clothes and letting her sleeve slide down to reveal the slender expanse of her forearm as she did it.

Kankurou felt himself grow rather warm. "Hello… Yoshiko-san," he murmured, his eyes flat out avoiding her barely veiled face. She inched a little closer, bosom heaving, and he smartly took step backwards.

His foot collided with something soft behind him. A sudden force pushed his leg out from under him; a female screamed indignantly. Yoshiko's hands flew up to her mouth. Goro snatched at the shinobi's arm, catching him just before he fell.

Kankurou slowly detangled himself from the old man's grip, one foot still off the ground. He turned awkwardly with his friend's aid, trying to see what he had trodden on. "Ah," the jounin cried, squinting in the darkness, "Oh, I'm sorry, I…"

A hand stuck him across the legs for a second time, as a large round face stared up at him, red-lined and full of tears. The body squatted like a broken fruit on the bare dust road, curving black-clad rolls of excess fat protruding around her middle. Heavily rounded bare legs kicked out from the lower half, the simple reed sandals had fallen from the puffy feet.

"I'm sorry," Kankurou repeated again, leaning down. Narrowly avoiding the thistly plants that grew under the archway, he strained to see the girl properly in the near darkness. She was in her early twenties or late teens. Unlike the girls in the nomadic tribe, there had been no effort made to conceal her face and long strands of greasy black hair fell freely from under her badly-fitted headscarf. She clearly suffered from a bad case of acne, angry bulging swellings marked the edges of her pudgy cheeks and double chin, but her eyes were as soft and round as her face with long lashes and thin arched eyebrows, visible against her pale skin even in the dim light. Her tears continued to well up under Kankurou's scrutiny and he shifted awkwardly, stretching out a hand. She screeched for a second time, inching backwards on her behind. Yoshiko cried out a warning behind him, but the girl's hand had already shot out, snatching up a sandal from the ground. Kankurou raised his hands, but before he could do anything else, she smacked him over and over with the wicker sole, making him cower and draw away, unwilling to defend himself against a female.

"_Lass mich in Ruhe_," he heard her snap over the stinging in his raised arms, her voice thin and anodyne even in the harsh tones of a language he did not understand, "_Verschwindet doch alle. Hau ab!_" She staggered to her feet, rumbled robes barely covering her knees where they had ridden up on her. "_Lass mich allein_." She sobbed again, her pudgy hand shaking where it held her sandal, the other abandoned on the ground.

Kankurou stared up at her, his arms still raised defensively. He was aware that Goro was beside him, his hands outstretched, as if he had been intending to interfere with the girl's assault. She had stopped on her own without giving him the chance. The brambles rustled in the shadows around her and she stood there in the darkness, sobbing and sniffing, with tears rolling down her cheeks. She took one step backwards, then another. Then she turned and fled. Kankurou simply stared after her. The wind whistled under the exposed archway, disturbing the plants and the dusty road. In the distance the round black-clad figure was illuminated briefly by a light from a doorway and then she disappeared into the night.

"Oh, don't mind her too much," Yoshiko sighed sympathetically, leaning down to touch his shoulder. Almost reflexively the jounin stood at her touch, still gaping after the other girl. "She's crazy," the young nomad continued with a sigh, rubbing her head under the embroidered fabric, "Doesn't even speak the language. Been trying all week to get her to open up, but she just gets scared. You shinobi have agreed to take her off our hands anyway."

Kankurou blinked, staring at her, "I'm sorry, what?" The sound of laughter carried on the breeze from the remaining nomadic women and their shinobi suitors.

"Yeah," Yoshiko shrugged with a noncommittal sigh, "The Kazekage agreed this afternoon. Says he'll send some medic nin to pick her up tomorrow. _We're_ getting forty-five gold pieces as compensation for looking after her." The last part was added more enthusiastically with a wink at her great-great-grandfather.

The old man straightened, clapping his hands in delight. "Excellent," Goro exclaimed, his face breaking into a grin, "That'll buy a new herd of camel and the water-rights for the next southern trek."

More laughter blew up from beside the paddock, but Kankurou felt his brows knit under the layer of purple war paint, as he glanced from one shadow-lined face to the other. Goro noticed his quizzical expression and sighed confidentially. "Poor girl," his bearded mouth twisted into a sorrowful expression as he went on, rolling a hand in circles as he explained, "We found her in that big shipwreck down on the south-east coastline, you know. Would have died if we hadn't saved her. Poor thing."

"What ship-wreck?" the shinobi interrupted, his eyebrows raised in surprise. He folded his arms and shifted his feet, frowning. "You mean the one with those foreign trading vessels a few months ago?" his brow knitted and he lifted his chin in thought, "I checked that out myself – there were no survivors…"

Goro raised a hand, the fingers outstretched in front of him. "We were nearby when it happened," he explained, patting the air in a placating motion, "So we would have been there first. Nasty storm that was. Never seen lightning like it. By morning of course the place was crawling with bandits and scavengers looking for valuable cargo, but she got washed up in an outcrop a little way away." His wrist jerked to one side. Kankurou frowned as he tried to picture the scene, his shoulders set and his mouth moving in thought. "We found her crawling injured out into the desert – poor girl – would have been dead by morning," the old man went on in rather dull tones, waving his fingers in front of him, "So we took her in: healed her wounds, fed her, clothed her, kept her with us until we got to Suna. I'm glad the Kazekage saw fit to compensate us. I thought he might."

Yoshiko sighed, evidently bored with the topic of conversation. "I just know she is a pain to feed," she mumbled, shaking her head in disapproval, "So fussy. Anyway, Baa-chan says you're to hurry home for supper, Goro-jii." Her expression lightened and she inched a little closer to the shinobi again, taking his arm in both of her hands. "Perhaps Kankurou can show me around the village later?" she added, glancing up at him hopefully, "It's been a while since I've been here."

The Suna jounin winced at the contact, stiffening involuntarily. "I…" Kankurou began, his eyes rolling to the side as he tried hastily to think, "Would love too, but I'm afraid I'm busy. Shinobi business, you know?"

"Oh," Yoshiko stared down at the ground, tracing the seam of his sleeve regretfully, "Perhaps tomorrow?"

"Perhaps…" Kankurou agreed, his smile very fixed at this point. He seemed to be talking to his shoulder rather than her, "But I'm sure Gaara needs me… for something."

She let go of his arm, her eyes downcast and regretful. The wind was quite cool now, the stray grains of sand it disturbed cut wherever they hit bare skin. "Oh… okay," she sighed, stuffing her hands in the folds of her robe, near her stomach, "Maybe… some other time?"

"Maybe," Kankurou gave her a very insincere smile, backing away into the rear wall of a nearby building.

Goro laughed, putting an arm around his disappointed great-great-granddaughter. "Well, I guess we'd best go see to that supper. We wouldn't want to upset your Baa-chan now, would we? Not while she's got a ladle in her hand," he teased, tapping the girl's nose with a spare finger. She scowled; the expression visible even behind her ornate veil. Goro sniggered softly, winking at Kankurou, "The wife will be waiting too, no doubt. Bless her beautiful heart. Lucky Number Thirteen I call her… though not to her face."

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><p><em><strong>(1)<strong> _Land of Wind


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